


Between the Comfort

by framedhim



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Exhibitionism, M/M, slight s11 spoiler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 04:39:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6597043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framedhim/pseuds/framedhim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is where they'll rage and lie, fallen wounded in the small expanse of empty space between rooms and lips and thighs.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Comfort

 

 

Written for the [Salt_Burn_Porn Challenge](http://salt-burn-porn.livejournal.com/) on Livejournal.  Prompt :   _reckless behavior_

Disclaimer:  Don't own them/Not for profit

 

~ * ~

Typically, most of the time, they'll forget the chatter of the streets and meld into the sidewalks, long-legged strides synced within a solitary bubble.  Calloused hands in pockets, elbows nudging against one another's soft cotton fabrics of lifted designer coats and familiar flannels.

Pay no mind to the helmet heads on bicycles whizzing by, nor the traffic along Main Street, USA with its obnoxious growls of large pickup trucks and the soft engine purrs of sedans.   Only the wafting aroma of a greasy spoon two blocks down, underneath their noses to lure them in.  Basic, rote rituals-eat, drive, save the world, sleep.

Dean will order first, interest these days waning on actually smiling at the servers, and if Sam takes too long, Dean'll order for him too.  Choke down eggs and bacon, a few spoons of yogurt and fruit.

"I miss our kitchen."

Sam misses it more, that Dean cooks him the best egg white omelettes and refills his coffee cup with a pride so strong in intensity that Sam doesn't dare to question.  Sam's mouth ignores the not-quite-ripe taste of honeydew, waters for ripened strawberries on french toast made from a recipe Dean spent a week perfecting.  That acknowledgement, however.  Why he can't let it slip out his mouth-

"Meh."

It must be a Tuesday.  There are Wednesdays and Sundays on occasion.  Fired up tension hot, bowstring taut.  Or a Saturday when the weather is just right.  Mondays, with the gloom of an entire week ahead of them because hunters may hunt but they're not wild animals, without a schedule.  Thursday, then, with blood beneath their nails--only Sam's showered and Dean doesn't have a concussion.  Friday.  Friday with its jacked up status, the heralding day of the debauchery to come.  

Sam sticks the blame on Friday, petulance in his stance for no good reason, but oh, now that it's there, his hands ache with the promise of a good Friday.

Most of the time, they'll shrug off the furrowed brows of strangers and focus on being the two hot-headed brothers bickering across the booth.  Aching knees knocking beneath the table, brown boots and a wide-legged stance that frames the other's.

But it's Friday, and Dean can see cautious eyes darting their way when he catches Sam's reflection in the diner window, Sammy's tamed chestnut hair and stubborn chin visible behind the 'E' in Emilia's.  

A quick shiver travels along Sam's shoulders as Dean turns to glare at him, master-in-the-kitchen pride wounded, Dean's utensils down and Dean's face leaning into his brother's across the table.  The vibe near them spikes, that panicky thrum of hearts and defense mode body language always when a Winchester has something to knock heads about the state of things.

~ * ~ 

Sam chokes.

The bathroom has a door handle lock and a sliding one too, mounted soap dispenser, and a dispenser for hand sanitizer.  A Gerber daisy arrangement is placed next to a trendy basket with a chalkboard label that reads 'Paper Towels', all situated on top a not-cheap wooden corner cabinet placed against the wall opposite the toilet and sink.  For a joint with such nice decor, it's funny how the food still sucks.  That's not a question, not something Dean really even cares to discuss.  

"Not Ina Garten.  Rubbing that in, Sammy?"  Dean spares a hand from the back of Sam's head to finger tilt his brother's chin up.  Sam fights against the heave the angle causes, straining tears down stubbled cheeks, his hands locked tight onto Dean's jeans with the effort to not fight the line of Dean's dick down his throat.  Column of it visible and hard as Dean strokes against it through the taut skin of Sam's neck.  

Dean takes the fluttery spasms of Sam's throat as an apology, loosens his grip with the knowledge that Sam will be good.  Sam will hold his nose against Dean's pubes, let the girth of Dean's cock slip past his gag reflex, as far as this angle will allow.  Sam will do that because he started this.  He's so good.  So, so good until the levee breaks.  Itch under their skin from the monotony.

Sam knows Dean comes for the sigh on his lips, a whisper of a threat as Dean's dick gives one last twitch.  

~ * ~

Emilia's manager meets them at the door, ready to have them arrested.  Turns bright red at the cough Sam gives, voice wrecked as he makes up a polite excuse despite the fact he's rock hard.  The manager may not see it, some people have scruples-Dean's never much cared for them, thanks-but Dean, he watches Sam shift, the grind of his 'r's in 'sorry.'  And there.  It's obvious; a neon blinking sign of bulge that Dean laughs at, carefree swagger and shouldering past them and out the door.  

There's a fight looming on the horizon.

~*~

It's always been.  Choreographed dance of theirs that stumbles onward in fits and starts.  

15 and 19 alone in Boulder, Colorado.  A span of three inches, boredom and loneliness and ugly words thrown out in jest until someone broke.  A foot jammed under a blanket, chicken leg thighs and lean muscle biceps wrestling because.  

Because puberty, "Bite me, Dean!  Stupid- you don't say shit when you should!" The first time acknowledgment of a boner that wasn't going away.  Spit on the head of his brother's dick, sucked him off until the numbness eased the angry line of his back.  

A hundred other turns, once the sickness sets in good and strong.  No Hell to wipe away any vestiges of guilt, not enough guilt to stop because they bicker about movies. Fight about sodas and whose turn it is to clean Dad's blood off the leather seats.  

16 and 20, parked in an abandoned Mobil station lot off I-95, bare-assed against the Impala's hood.  Jerking off under the stars.  Dean's frustrations bleeding black up and up into the universe and moonlight, toes curled in his boots and his baby brother's head tilting down and down onto Dean's shoulder.

"I lied."  

Panting words, furiously beating off with the headlights of the interstate traffic behind them.    

"I know."

19 and 23, one of many godforsaken, drunken calls.  

"Why?"

Bar patrons in the background, a Zeppelin tune to the sound of Dean's whiskey-soaked hurt and confusion.

Normal.  The plea for normal despite the slip of Sam's hand down past the waist of his pajama pants, creaky dorm bed singing out. 

"I can't.  Just... just listen."

30 something and 30 something, the Bunker a place to rest their heads and lord, they're hellfire cleansed beyond a shred of don't-give-a-fuck with who knows.  Crowley mentions it in jealousy, Sam says one night to the war table and Dean grunts a response or a disclaimer.  Rowena bats her lashes and plays them up in her mind like two gladiators dueling and fucking.  They know this because she's explained in full detail before they could shut her mouth for her.  

It is.  It was and it is and there's no use fighting now but to fight and lie to get that fix.

~ * ~ 

This is where they'll rage and lie, fallen wounded in the small expanse of empty space between rooms and lips and thighs.

Dean smirks when midnight comes and goes, hears Sam's feet pad slowly down the hallway towards Dean's room.  

They shove, the Empty above their head, Amara and the Darkness one more plot twist.  It's no use, the loving kisses that see them in bed together most nights as sanctuary. Most nights, a hand across the backseat of the Impala to touch.  Typical nights, gentle rubs on a freckled stomach, mile of hairy leg tossed over a shorter one.  Soft, spent cock on an ass tucked close in exhaustion.

They go to the mattress, sweat slicked skin and biting teeth.  Three finger stretch too quick, a knife's edge sliver of pain.  

Slamming home--grunting, rutting between shaking thighs and, "Fuck me, asshole!  Fuck-"

It's catharsis.  It's another day, another moment, one more smack across Dean's plump, freckled ass.  

One more yelp, a bite and a flip, Sam trembling with the stretch.  Sam tight and grinding down and forward until the world blots out one more time.

Between the comfort, one more time, this is where they'll fight to stay.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
